


starlike skim

by audkyrie



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, ft. not all is what it seems, it is very important to me that all vanso starts off sad, riku and vanitas' begrudging childhood friendship, vanitas and namine's wholesome young adult friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2020-04-23 10:57:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19149631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audkyrie/pseuds/audkyrie
Summary: Sometimes - and this was a fantasy that Vanitas could never truly admit to anyone, least of all himself - he would envision that there was no open air in between their hands. They’d greet the waves together, and Vanitas would not be alone.-au where vanitas is a lonely young adult, and sora just happens to be out swimming on the night of a storm.





	1. all the red flags just look like flags

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Edward Lear's _The Pelican Chorus._
> 
> [Written for the Vanso Mondays prompt, _end of the road._](https://twitter.com/vsmondays/status/1135412437027627010) Taken directly from an old twitter thread of mine.

“For what it’s worth, you know, I am sorry.”

“What is it that you’re apologizing for?” Unintentionally, the words comes out as a hiss. Currently, Vanitas is attempting to dangle the last remnants of his cigarette in the tiny sliver between his teeth; Naminé has a queasy expression on her face when he finally forfeits and lets it putter out all over himself.

Fortunately for Naminé, she’s far too nice of a girl to say anything. Plus, Vanitas is numb, and he’s hollow in all the places where his emotions should be festering. At the moment, he’s frankly incapable of caring about the uncleanliness nor its stench. Hell, the game plan was to torch all said articles of clothing regardless. Does it really matter if he’s using his pants as a makeshift ash tray? Perhaps there will be time to be disgusted, later. If not, he’ll be disgusted upon recollection and their clothes with gory, strewn bits are naught but ash.

There’s a small pause. Somewhat politely, Vanitas prompts her with a, _well_? Naminé settles into herself then; once she’s fitted her black skirt more to her rain-soaked skin instead of the dirtied seat, a handful of the drying bloodstains become very obvious.

She sighs, and says in a rush, “I know what it’s like to be isolated, to be all by yourself. Especially for so long. It’s nice that you got to meet Ven and Sora, but I get how rough it must have been to grow up without anyone else at your side.”

Vanitas snorts. “Eh.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her glower. For the smithereens that can barely be referred to as pants, there’s definitely enough of a tear for Vanitas to curl a finger into and _tug_. Some of its frayed ends splits completely and the remaining shreds tickle the nicks in his leg. “Listen, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that your sympathies would probably mean more if that was really the case.”

She gapes at him; an unspoken question there, and Vanitas dimly realizes that she’s thinking something among the lines of, _you surely can’t be referring to your old man._ An outraged fury, violence similar to the color red blurs the very edges of his vision.

“God. Not my father, no, fuck him. But Riku was there, and by extension, Kairi too,” he clarifies. 

“Oh, right. But Vanitas,” Naminé crosses her hands on her lap, and starts to tug at the fabric of her translucent skirt. Slowly, she redirects her gaze to the thunderous outside. It’s a cascade; the water has just about drowned out the window and visibility is fatally low. “It’s not like you were really friends. I mean… were you? To be honest, I got the impression that you were more acquaintances than- than friendly.”

He waves his hand. “Eh. So-so.” Release; he lets go of the gas pedal. Vanitas has rarely ever been so forthcoming.

“So-so? What do you mean?”

“It’s just that… okay, Naminé, I’m sure if you asked him, he’d say yes. To him, we’re buddies.” Vanitas makes a face. “But here’s the thing. For all that time we grew up together, not once did we do regular kid shit. Movies. Sleepovers. The stuff you read about friendships, when you were younger? Never got to do it. There wasn’t a chance to really hang out, or anything stupid and childish like that."

It hurts to say. Something hardens within his throat. He flicks a nail at the lump, and forces it downward.

“Even if I wanted to, no matter how badly I wanted it, y’know the bastard wouldn’t have agreed. Funnily enough, now that I think about it, he’s still listed under my emergency contact. I think that’s a pretty apt explanation of our bond, eh?”

“Ah. Well. I’m sorry to hear that.” Without thinking about it, Vanitas groans aloud. How many times have they had the, _you don’t need to apologize to me_ conversation, he thinks. Quietly, Naminé giggles to herself, as if pressing her dainty hand to her daintier lips would completely silence her amusement.

When she’s done, she asks albeit through huffs of laughter, “Do you mind - could you tell me how it started?”

Now, the car is nearly at a complete stop. It isn’t roaring down the pavement anymore, no longer racing against the wild beat of the storm. They're making their way towards the cottage and the rain lightens by the street. 

“Hm. ‘supose you don’t mean when I meet Sora, do you. Or to describe the afterbirth upon freeing myself from womb, at that.”

“Vanitas? While I am glad that we’re friends, I really do wish you weren’t so openly vulgar with me.”

“Tch. Join the club. Ventus has made a name of of himself, being the founder of it and everything.” Vanitas presses on the brake, which might just be in the nick of time. Not like he was worried, and Naminé is used to berating him for bad, reckless driving.

 _FULL STOP_ , so exclaims the stop sign, as if he was going to casually roll into the intersection. So careful, what with the police station but a couple of blocks away. But it picks at his brain. Stop signs, exit signs, prohibited turns and yielding motions.

Memories are bitter. 'Real beginnings,' such an abstract concept. Could Vanitas point out the instance where he ceased living as a meatshield and became a sentient being? Unbelievable as it seems, there was a prior to Sora - Ven - Naminé. Life didn’t begin that night in the ocean, certainly didn't start the night he met Sora. Who can say that they found humanity in drowning? 

He remembers a time before he was stranded and half-starved in that rural town’s gas station, with nothing but three dollars to his name.

Currently, Vanitas doesn’t have his blinker on, but if he tore his tires into an unprecedented left turn he’d slam into the barricaded area of the city. Beyond there, lies forth the ocean. Next to the seaside, where the criss-crossing wooden boards are lettered with the words, **_END OF THE ROAD,_** bold and in black paint.

Over the years, Vanitas has become very familiar with that phrase.

“I guess I never told you about how I left home, did I?”

*****

On his impromptu move-in night, Vanitas has a smarting bruise laid directly over his cheekbone. No one present acknowledges that the bruise is hand-shaped.

Upon arrival, Riku immediately cajoles him into the hallway’s bathroom, but he’d be remiss not to correct. It’s less forceful, and much more an act of convincing. As soon as Vanitas is half-naked in front of Riku, the two of them pretend that they don’t see the various scars that make up his back.

In truth, even in the face of a harsh situation, it’s difficult to actually be awkward around Riku. Despite everything, they’re talking to each other gracefully; Riku gestures at the knob and rambles about how to turn the water on, that until Vanitas is entirely unpacked it’s totally fine for him to use his soap, and that any of the yellow towels on the rack belong to him and thus are okay to use. 

“Let me know if you need anything,” is the last thing Riku says to him. But he pauses by the frame, when it’s mere inches from closing. Whatever he’s about to say is discarded in the end; Riku shakes his head and leaves him with a half-smile and the door clicking shut. Once he’s alone, Vanitas unclothes fully, pondering over what it was that Riku wanted to tell him.

Riku's bad at speaking, in the measures that Vanitas is bad at listening.

In the shower, the spray of the water against his spine makes him flinch. Of course; shouldn’t he know better, especially by now? At this point, his dorsal side is practically a large, gaping split of leftover ooze and pus. The stinking rot comes off of him in clumps. As is routine, Vanitas snarls out the pain, letting it slither through his mouth. “Fuck, that hurts…”

With some degree of sickening fascination, Vanitas watches as the few remaining drips of blood fall to the floor. Soon enough, the vibrant gash of red is entirely swallowed by the stream of water. Nonetheless, there’s a pinkish smear on the otherwise white tiles where his blood used to be. At least the pain is not _just_ because of the unhealed wounds. He regrets not being patient enough for the shower to warm, but this isn’t his house and it isn’t his bill, and he keeps Riku’s mother in mind as he waits for it to heat up.

There’s a funny feeling in his stomach. As he spreads Riku’s blue-green body wash across his chest, the emotion rises itself into a loud uproar; it claws, nails snatching at the vast empty space in between his ribs. Vanitas takes a cautionary sniff, and yeah, it would make sense that he smells exactly like Riku does. The scent reminds him vaguely of salt, and the bottle has some oceanic splash across.

Right. 

The ocean. 

Neither of them have ever been out to sea. Even as children, Riku had always wanted to visit. After all, the Kairi girl was from the sea, and she missed it more than anything in this world. Occasionally Vanitas has been subject to her ramblings and although he doesn’t care for her, Kairi’s passion is infectious. If anything, over the course of years the thought - it had metamorphosed into a kind of daydream. _It would be nice, if I could run from home and embrace the shoreline,_ he thought _. And if I was ever sad, I could go out and look at the ocean._

There is nothing more alien than the shore, given that their state is land-locked and utmost dry. 

Unfortunately the country land is a type of prison. An interesting method of entrapment, a cage where the barriers aren’t steel and cold but instead there’s not an exit sign hanging overhead the wheat fields and ever expanding roads. All of the waypoints he sees are out of bounds and out of reach.

There isn’t enough gas in this lonely town to leave. Try, and one would find themselves lost and immeasurably alone.

\- Ah, where was he? He's gotten off track. 

Indulging in Riku’s shampoo and conditioner is, personally, a step too far for Vanitas. He does wash it, however; strenuously combs through his messy wet hair, separating the knots until he can pat it softly. For his standards, it’s overgrown what with the ends being beneath his jugular. Xehanort had described his hair as _relentless._ According to him _,_ all of the cut hair would regrow within a month or two; apparently the upkeep was just too expensive. If it was pricey then, it must be a luxury now.

There’s little love to be had for split ends, though. Staying filthy is a non-option. Maybe Vanitas can learn how to cut his own hair. Granted, that is, if he’s calm enough for it. Later in the week he’ll have to ask Riku’s mother where she keeps her scissors and to borrow one, should any of them be good enough to chop hair.

It's a quick realization that their bathroom runs colder than any other part of the house. His forearms are entirely gooseskin, the flesh all flared up and reduced to pinpricks. What must be Riku’s towels are fairly fluffy and Vanitas appreciates the soft sensation. In truth, Vanitas spends more time than he’s willing to admit just enjoying the way the towel rubs against his skin. There’s no mildew and it isn’t coarse against the gashes across his body. Do normal families replace them so often? He’s only ever felt a towel this soft in the supermarket.

The fog in the bathroom lifts as he dries. Vanitas tries not to stare at his reflection for too long; his appearance is unnerving. Although he doesn’t look, Vanitas is aware of what’s truly off-kilter about his body. How his ribcage sticks apart from his stomach, the sunken cheekbones, the bruises that ranges across the spectrum. On first glance, Vanitas isn’t grotesque, merely an oddity to the naked eye. But when Vanitas regards the mirror for too long, he starts to see the indent of the scars and the various discolorations.

Thinking about it makes him queasy. Vanitas leaves the bathroom and steps into the corridor.

Luckily for him, there is a spare guest room… only, it’s sans bed. The lack of proper living arrangements isn't surprising. It isn’t enough to upset him, Vanitas has slept on surfaces more uncomfortable than plush floors. There’s enough space for his boxes and thensome, a built-in closet, and its the room furthest down the hall meaning it’s improbable he’ll bother Riku’s mother via his noisy existence. He clothes himself in that guest room, wondering if he’ll somehow start referring to it as _his_ room and simultaneously hoping he’ll always be considered a stranger in this house.

Although he doesn’t mean to, he makes eye contact with Riku’s mother. He shies from her gaze, feels it drift over the entirety of his frame. Her disgust is apparent; her nose up-turns, and Vanitas’ skin ruptures in heat upon knowing he’s repulsed her.

Yet, despite her being sick at the sight of him, she puts a hand on his shoulder and grins. Strained, sure, but she musters a smile nonetheless.

“You know, I’m a bit surprised. Vanitas, you clean up rather well.”

“…thanks.” No one’s said that before.

From the hours of nine to eleven, the three of them bicker on who’s taking the couch. Continuously, Riku offers up his bedroom; according to Riku, Vanitas is a _guest_ and it would be _improper_ for him to sleep in the living room of all places. In the art of a compromise, his mother suggests an old and largely forgotten sleeping bag they have in storage, but Vanitas denies that too. He neglects to say why, though - Vanitas knows that the itchy fabric will irritate his injuries and he’s already being such an inconvenience, bleeding all over a sleeping bag would increase the likelihood of their gratitude running short.

It’s fifteen ‘til midnight when they come to the conclusion that on nights Riku isn’t out for whatever reason, be a sleepover, hanging out at Kairi’s, or out of town for band meets Vanitas will be taking his bed. Vanitas makes a silent promise that he’ll wash and dry the covers afterwards, because he doesn’t want to contaminate Riku.

So far? So far, Riku’s home - the home of Riku’s mother, to be exact, since she’s the one paying rent and other such important things - fairs better than Xehanort’s, but what’s a stretch of pavement? It took Riku under a half-hour to drive back here, in the throes of an anxiety attack no less. By chance, if Xehanort was to ever text him with the threat of arrival, Vanitas would have less time than that to pack and flee. What does the distance amount to? How is living here any better, when Vanitas sees the birdcage sitting beside the windowsill?

Adulthood can’t come fast enough. That is, if Vanitas lives long enough to greet his eighteenth birthday.


	2. snow, in los angeles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor content warning: referenced character death / self harm imagery / vanitas experiences an explicit flashback & episode within this chapter.

Behind them lies the sunset.

Contrastingly above and abroad - thanks in regards to a short walk on the pavement - is Naminé’s apartment. It’s ungentlemanly behavior, but Vanitas genuinely, can’t properly drop Naminé off at her garage door. According to her, the landlord recently installed a camera and is routinely watching the feed like a hawk. Part of Naminé’s warnings included the story of how on one such occasion, her roommate mistakenly let her girlfriend drive into the garage. Temporarily. For a couple of minutes. If that, if we’re being generous.

Said roommate faced a handful of written warnings and a temporary increase on her rent.

Thus, Vanitas stalls his car on the street.

Altogether, Naminé leaves his car with little fanfare. A warm smile, followed with a small reminder to burn his clothing. She waves, he waves back, and with that they won’t hear from one another again until their coexistence is convenient.

This little arrangement they tolerate comes with a wordless agreement; a strange status quo in that Vanitas and Naminé are friends when they are directly communicating with one another. Texting, driving, being within the same general area - fine. Sure. In whatever circumstance, Vanitas will acknowledge Naminé and she will pretend like she had very well expected to converse with him. Upon separation, however, they’re immediately strangers. If oddly, palpable strangers.

It’s typical of him. Of his relationships. Yet, it’s something not a lot of people understand. Irritatingly enough, there’s a sole exception to this hard-and-fast rule of his, and he’s named Ventus.

— Involuntarily, Vanitas’ eyebrow twitches. At the next red light, he palms a dried bloodsplatter.

Speaking of blood.

Apparently, their blood bond doesn’t exactly equate to an automatic connection. _Who knew_ , Vanitas thinks with a glower. Ventus regularly struggles to comprehend his younger brother, and Vanitas is rarely in the mood to entertain him. According to Ventus, their problem stems with his weird origin. As in, because Vanitas is a born and raised midwesterner, and Ven treats that upbringing as if his infant body might as well have sprung up from the wheat fields with the spread of pale yellow stem as his sickly placenta.

Okay.

That might not have been his exact words. He can imagine Naminé’s disgusted groan such a lewd statement - _gross again, Vanitas!_ \- but it was practically the same, in summary.

Introducing! The counterargument; Ventus has the coastline’s flowing waterline in lieu of veins. Hell, Vanitas is hardly a byproduct of a landlocked state. Virtually, Kansas has no personality. Personally speaking, he believes that implying otherwise should be an implication of a crime. He lacks any traditional manners of the west, and he doesn’t sing about country roads absentmindedly or whatever.

Whereas Ven is the poster child for a spoiled little beach boy. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Conventionally attractive, due to adulthood being unnaturally kind to him. Over time, his blonde hair has naturally bleached and could be mistaken for platinum by someone who’s bad at their colors.

The problem with his brother growing up sheltered has to be taken in its most literal form - that is, Ventus eventually outgrew the gates that surrounded him.

Because eventually, a body widens and thickens against the unnatural constraints. Maybe Ven didn’t mean to destroy the metaphorical roof over his head. Say that, day by day, he dreaded watching his head enclose further to the rooftop. Even if he had nothing to blame but time, there was nothing left to protect him afterwards. Now, all Ven can do is stare bleakly at the ruins of his adolescence, knowing of no way forward and unable to return to his home.

That is an irritatingly literal euphemism, though. Not entirely real or factual.

Reality is when he’s faced with the fact that Ventus has remained a hermit. He pulls into their gravel road driveway, turns off his car engine and steps outside. It's expected, in a disappointing manner, that Ven’s car hasn’t moved. Furthermore, the orange _FUNERAL_ sticker remains plastered to the upper-right corner of his rear windshield.

For half a second, Vanitas debates removing it himself. It’s doubtful that Ven would notice him pocketing his keyring; likely confuse it for Vanitas hanging his own up upon coming inside. Then, he’d quietly tip-toe outside to crawl into the back of the car, and meticulously pick at the scabs leftover by the peeling plastic. Whether he’d outright taunt Ven with it its offensive existence, or immediately trash it, is what he’d have to decide re-entering their house.

Nonetheless Vanitas saves that dramatic solution for another day. Today was bad, erroneously so, and invoking Ven into a fight is only fun when Ven has the willpower to argue back. If he doesn’t, Vanitas feels… _things_ , things akin to the guilt swirling at the bottom of a schoolyard bully’s stomach.

Better to pick his battles.

Which is why he announces himself not by banging the door, but yelling to Ventus’ bent figure on the couch. “Hey, eyesore.”

“Ah… hello, Vanitas. Good evening to you too.”

The exhaustion is audible. Unfortunately for Vanitas, Ventus’ prevailing lethargy means he has to hold on torching all articles of clothing he’s presently wearing. Although it takes some rummaging, Vanitas finds an acceptably freezing soda in the back of the 24-pack.

Vanitas lazily clinks some name-brand soda can to Ven’s cheek. An immediate sigh. More concerning, Ventus doesn’t shudder. Without a trace of energy, Ventus lazily brings his hand up to Vanitas’ and draws the can away. He accepts it with a quiet, _thank you_ , and gestures to the empty space on the couch. An invitation.

 _An insult._ He sniffs at the prospect.

“You know, coming home, I noticed something even uglier than you on the car.” Ven slowly turns his head to acknowledge him. Vanitas prods, “That funeral sticker’s still there.” Just as slow, Ventus regards the television instead. A small hiss of air; Ventus opens his soda.

“And?”

“And you keep forgetting about it.”

“I’ve told you, I’ll take it off when I drive again.”

“Doubt it.” Stink-eye response. “Oh, you’ll have to go into that mechanical sadness you call your car one day. But you won’t remember the sticker, and you’re gonna be real confused why everyone’s letting you merge. Then you’re gonna get pulled over for being in the fast lane. Then you’ll use your one phone call, and it’s gonna be me, because it won’t be Terra, since you won’t let him know when you’re in troub—”

“I don’t drive in the left lane,” he interrupts. Vanitas clicks his tongue, and half-heartedly notes how dry his mouth’s become. “You know that." Sensing an argument, Ventus quickly continues, " _But_ \- whatever. Vanitas, were at the beach again? I guess you were hanging out with Naminé.”

A tremor appears in Vanitas’ hands. Nervous tic. Or, unrelated, because there’s no reason Vanitas would be anxious in regards to the shoreline.

“Yes,” Vanitas says, careful to keep the steel out of his voice. “As we tend to.”

Ventus dips his head. “You know, if you ever wanted me to go…”

Although theoretically, Ven should be unable to see Vanitas' movements from behind the couch, his expression changes. Two ways; one, it morphs into one of surprise. Secondly, his nose crinkles into itself. The former stumps him, until Vanitas stares at the carpet and sees he's stumbled backwards. As though at the mere suggestion of Ventus joining him, Vanitas had stepped away as though he had been burned.

It was an entirely involuntary action.

Right?

“No," Vanitas says, in the same bleak tone as his earlier _yes_. “That's a stupid idea. Don't offer it again.”

“- Van, why do you smell bad? Hey! Van!”

As Vanitas retreats into the, alleged, safety of his sanctioned room, Ventus' concerned shouts continue. Nevertheless, they're both considerate that Ven is practically unable to move around in the throes of his grief, and neither of them have the energy to re-engage in a high-stakes, emotional argument within the span of a same day. 

Briefly, he relies on the wooden doorframe to steady himself. He internally punches himself for it, but the shakes have overcome his body entirely. God, Ventus and his pin-point precision sometimes. 

 _He's going to bring it up_ , a realization that triggers his acid reflex. Vanitas has always been sensitive to that kind of thing. Keeling over his trashcan makes him feel worse, but at least in this position he can tap the door closed. _And what am I going to tell him? I can't tell him about Sora. No one understands Sora, and if Ven doesn't think he's dangerous, he'll think his stupid stepfather's death destroyed my brain too. Fucking Ven. Fucking Eraqus. I'm so glad he's dead._

The world rights itself. At worst, Vanitas gagged over his bin; there is a small silver of spit shining on his lips, surely. The wetness prickles on his skin. 

They're both crazy. They had a three, five minute conversation, and right now? Later tonight, Ventus is going to attempt to emerge into the couch entirely. Currently, Vanitas feels all the ugly sensations of his youth; ants crawling within their little nests they built into his nerves. Spiders digging into tender flesh, spreading out a thin but wide web that will catch those ants and ensnare others and maggots because he's decaying because he's disgusting, he's unclean, he's infested, this whole shithouse is dirty, a public safety thread, it needs to be bulldozed, and torched to kill all the squirming little bodies of parasites and bigger creatures employed as thriving hosts and other indescribable microorganisms 

 

 

 

Red gashes, all encompassing. Rather than ignite his offending articles of clothing, Vanitas decides to temporarily trash them. Make no mistake, they will have their pyre; for the time being Vanitas feels safe enough with the infected biochemically degrading within his bin.

 

In calendar years, he's definitely gotten older.

But Vanitas cannot describe the significant change between him now and the teenager him, the one who cleaned his blisters' white heads off with towels overcome with mold. Both versions are similarly overgrown, overrun by insects using his fledgling body's bones as architecture. Perhaps the one stark difference, is that when Vanitas glances out of his window he sees naught a cage but the horizon. Where the sky meets the sea. 

If he's having a relapse this bad... there isn't another coping mechanism. 

When Vanitas comes to the end of the road, the shoreline is still there - but someone waits for him now. Just as he wanted; just as he never wanted, like this.

*****

It'll never _not_ surprise him that there is on-site parking. Not that it's available, currently, that's not what's bothering him. Given the wintry chill, the beach isn't isn't very populated. But there's no time limit, no meter, and Vanitas has never caught an officer on patrol. A continued lack of sirens and flashing lights, even during that fateful stormy night.

Thus, it's a normal visit.

Coming here impromptu results in two things - no sandals, so he's walking on the sand barefoot. The sensation throws him off-kilter still, being so cold and strangely formatting its shape into Vanitas' footprint. It slightly hurts. It stings.

Despite being out of breath, he can't make it to the waves any sooner. 

Various reflections shine on the face of the water. Watery images of the ferris wheel in the distance, mimicking its flashy hues and vividness. Vanitas stares at his own mirror image, until it slowly

_slowly_

_slowlyslowlyslowly_

_slowly._

Overflows, with tendrils of hair surfacing first. The creature rakes his claws on the deep indents of the sand, pulling itself further from the reach of the ocean’s maw. Scales, which become the color of ink and longlasting blood in the moonlight, line up from his lengthy nails until the turn of his elbows.

With most of his torso now beached, the mercreature has little problem curling against the shoreline. Upon his partial entry onto the earth, his head finally tilts upward.

“Hello, Vanitas.” Sora’s smile is a little strained, which is understandable - given all of the icicle-long and icicle-thin teeth slotting in that small, narrow mouth. “Sad again today?”

A shiver rakes down Vanitas’ back.


End file.
